Reflections in Blood
by the-time-goddess-of-221b
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a man of many faces. To his new flatmate, the incredibly sharp cop John Watson, he is an aspiring forensic scientist. But what John doesn't know is that while he's investigating several mysterious "ghost victims", Sherlock is the one cutting them down one by one. Sherlock my have the brightest mind of his time, but how long can he keep his assassinations a secret
1. Chapter 1

"Please, please I-I have kids, a family!" A man, crumpled in defeat and pain, lay broken and beaten on the cement. The man's pleas didn't even dent the iron casing that had grown around Sherlock's heart. He looked down at the defenseless man with disgust, no man, guilty or not, family or not, should use another's existence to beg for his own life.

"Those children will be better off without your scum around," he sneered. Without another word he arched the knife cupped in his hand, and with the gracefulness that comes only from extended practice, Sherlock slit the man's throat. A line of scarlet arced through the air and followed the path of his knife, splattering on the ground like a brushstroke from a painter's hand.

The victim slumped to the ground, a wet gurgle emanating from his lacerated throat. A red river flowed along the ground in intricate swirls and elegant curves that inevitably led it to the gutter just a few feet away. Sherlock leaned down indifferently and wiped his blade on the dead mans shirt before replacing it in the carefully concealed sheath hidden between the folds of his coat. Another job done and more money to pay off the rent.

* * *

Sherlock heard John coming long before his rhythmic thumps sounded on the stairs. Sherlock made one last sweep around the flat to reassure that all of the "tools of his trade" were safely stored away before slumping down in his favorite armchair and waiting for the onslaught of verbal abuse that was sure to come.

John's footsteps paused outside the door for just a brief second before he burst into the flat in a fury. Sherlock didn't flinch as John stomped past him, cursing under his breath and clenching his fists so hard his knuckles were white. Sherlock sank further into his chair, must've been a hard day at the station.

"Where, the bloody hell, were you last night, Huh?" John spun towards him, obviously trying to keep his anger in check.

"Working."

John let out a small laugh and rubbed his jaw with the palm of his hand. "Right. 'Course you were. More of your, what was it, "aspiring forensic research" I assume."

This was as anxious as Sherlock had ever seen him, something major must've happened. "It was," he kept his answers short and emotionless as always, he needed to be as distant from John as possible without pushing him away. "What happened at the station now? Something serious obviously."

John clenched and unclenched his fists a few more times and turned back toward the kitchen. "They found another one. Another bloody ghost." He banged his fist against the table resulting in a large crash as a beaker shattered on the ground. Well Mrs. Hudson wasn't going to like that one bit.

"No trace of them anywhere? Nothing at all?" Sherlock leaned forward in pretend interest, he had to pretend to be interested to be sure that John never suspected him.

"Nothing. But enough with the questions, I'm not supposed to be sharing any of this at all, remember our agreement."

Upon becoming flat mates with each other three weeks ago they had both agreed that since John was a cop and Sherlock tended to keep to himself, that neither of them would dig into each other's professional affairs. For all John knew, Sherlock was an aspiring forensic scientist studying privately with a professional tutor.

Even with the agreement, it was nearly impossible not to gleam at least a little about what went on in their work lives, and Sherlock was more observant than most. John and a team of investigators had been trying to unravel the mysteries of these "ghost victims". These seemingly unrelated incidents have been occurring around London for about a month. Every time the body would be found by the police and they would attempt to identify it, to no avail. Even after questioning the friends and family of the victim and getting a name, when the police go to look them up no files can be found. It's like the victim simply didn't exist, there's no birth certificate, no registration, no identification of any kind. They're ghosts. But Sherlock knew better, all of the victims did have a connection, he had been the one to dispose of them all.

Sherlock's eyes followed John as he made his way to his room. As soon as he heard the click of John's door locking Sherlock uncrossed his legs and scrambled over to his laptop. Opening it up he checked his email for updates, there was one unread message from an untraceable sender.

_"Everything out here is well and done. Hopefully the next time a name comes you will hurry and come along too. Don't try to ask too many questions!"_

To the untrained eye it might look like a message from some distant family member commenting on his studies. But Sherlock spotted the pattern immediately: a skip code.

_"**Everything** out here **is** well and **done**. Hopefully the **next** time a **name** comes you **will** hurry and **come** along too. **Don't** try to **ask** too many **questions**!"_

Another order from his employer. Sherlock let out a heavy breath and leaned back in his chair, deleting the message immediately. In his line of work you don't ask many questions, but it doesn't keep you from wondering. He had no clue why he was being asked to dispose of all these people, and quite honestly he didn't care, but he was exceedingly curious as to why all of their files were being wiped afterward but their corpses left alone. Usually Sherlock would make a point to clean up his own mess, so to speak, but his employer's new, and somewhat surprising, orders had been clear: leave the body untouched and let them do the rest.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he jerked awake, he had heard a sound from his right. He was out of his bed and on his feet within a matter of seconds, adrenaline rushed through his veins as his eyes darted around the room, looking for the source of the disturbance. A little flash of light caught his eye and he spun towards it, arms raised and fists clenched in a fighting stance. It was his phone, a light was flashing to signal he had a text. He let his arms drop and groaned; sometimes an assassin's reflexes were more of a nuisance than an advantage.

He picked up his phone, taking deep soothing breaths to control the left over spouts of adrenaline. The text was short and to the point:

_ "Go outside. Get in the car. We need to talk. -M"_

Sherlock deleted the text and rubbed his face, did he really have to meet with him at two in the morning? He could barely stand him when he was fully awake.

In less than two minutes Sherlock was dressed and waiting on the curb outside of 221b. He brushed his hand along the hilt of his dagger hidden up his sleeve, making sure the straps were secure. A black unmarked vehicle rolled to a stop in from of him and he wordlessly climbed in, a black suited companion waited for him in the back seat.

"Good morning Mr. Holmes. My employer hopes you had a restful slumber." The man's voice was smooth and emotionless, another one of his employer's mindless drones. There would be no use trying to get any information from him.

"I didn't," Sherlock responded curtly. "Why the sudden need to talk to me? And at such an early hour, I thought he hated mornings."

"He does, sir. But he ensured me that this was of the upmost importance."

Sherlock harrumphed and leaned back into the plush leather seat. It was useless trying to look out the window, they were tainted black on both sides to keep you from knowing where you were. But Sherlock didn't need to see outside to know his location; he knew exactly where he was going.

The car rolled to a gentle stop and someone opened the door for him. A familiar wooden door, barely visible in the soft lighting of the street lamps, stood in front of him. He pushed it open soundlessly and made his way through the many crisscrossing hallways of the complex. A guide followed him helplessly, Sherlock had no need of him, he had traveled this path many times.

Reaching his destination, a large varnished wooden door with a brass knocker, he promptly knocked and proceeded to walk in without a reply.

"Hello brother, at least you knocked this time before barging in."

His older brother Mycroft stood with his back turned to him as he looked out the window dramatically. He always did love to be dramatic.

"Hello Mycroft. Why the early wakeup call? I had a long day yesterday you know, assassinations can be so tiring." Sherlock walked to the front of the desk behind Mycroft. He had his hands clasped behind his back and was fingering the hilt of his dagger, just because they were brothers didn't mean Mycroft would show him any less mercy than one of his many other employees.

"There's no need for that here," Mycroft commented as he turned to face Sherlock, motioning to the sleeve where the dagger was hidden. "I didn't bring you here to dispose of you."

Sherlock stopped fiddling with his weapon. "Then why did you being me here?"

"To talk, just like I said." Mycroft sat down behind the desk and motioned for Sherlock to do the same. "Tea?"

"I'd rather not," he sat down and waited for Mycroft to explain.

"Suit yourself," Mycroft responded as he poured himself a cup. "How's John doing?"

Sherlock was taken aback by the random question. "He's fine. Since you arranged for him to become my flat mate I've managed to gleam much more about what the police know about our agreements."

"That's good," Mycroft said listlessly. "But I was rather hoping you'd be more careful than you have been. John's getting close, Sherlock. Far too close for comfort." Mycroft leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands. "We've been doing our part, all the records have been removed, but you're not cleaning up after yourself these past few kills. Why? Are you trying to get us caught?"

Sherlock blinked in surprise, "Because you told me not to."

"I did no such thing. Why the hell would I tell you to do that?" Mycroft narrowed his eyes, distrust dripped from his words.

"How would I know? You're the one that tells me not to ask questions." Sherlock was starting to get frustrated, he hated always doing what he was told and this was the thanks he was getting for it? His fingers twitched and he itched to whip out his knife and slit his brother's throat there and then.

"Well I didn't tell you to. So unless you're trying to sabotage this mission on purpose, which I think is unlikely, someone else is pulling at strings." Mycroft leaned back in his chair, obviously deep in thought. "But who?"

Just then Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket: a text. He took it out and immediately after reading it he jumped to his feet with his weapon drawn.

_"It was me."_

Mycroft also shot to his feet, "what does it say?"

Sherlock wordlessly passed him the phone, he was searching everywhere for any kind of camera or microphone. A tiny sliver of black caught his eye. The bookshelf. A wire was carefully concealed along the edge of the wood and a tiny microphone just barely poked out from behind a shelved book. Sherlock quickly cut the microphone free of the cord, severing the connection.

"It seems," Mycroft said slowly, "we have an enemy."

"It would seem so. Try and see if you can trace where the signal was going, I have to get back to the flat or John will start getting suspicious."

Sherlock made to leave but Mycroft grabbed him by the sleeve. Sherlock spun around and reflexively held the knife up to his brother's throat.

"Don't startle me like that Mycroft," he growled.

Mycroft held his hands up, "My apologies, I sometimes forget how skittish you can be. I was merely going to tell you that I will be contacting you from my personal phone now, so you can always be sure it is me."

Sherlock nodded and released Mycroft. The elder brother straightened out his jacket and motioned for Sherlock to leave. The black car was waiting for him as he exited the building and he quickly slipped in and made his way back to Baker Street.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had the car drop him off a few streets away from 221B, just to be safe. As he walked up to his flat he saw a glimmer of light coming from the living room window. Shit.

It was 3:47 am as he pushed open the door to the flat. John was sitting at his computer, he looked up as Sherlock entered.

"Where were you this early in the morning?" John tried to sound disinterested and he focused back on his computer screen, but Sherlock could tell he was itching to find out what he had been up to.

He needed a convincing lie, and quick. He said the first thing that came to mind, "Visiting family. My cousin is ill." As soon as it left his lips Sherlock knew it didn't sound convincing, not enough emotion. He tried to conjure up some fake tears to make up for his slip. It was too early for this.

Well whatever he did seemed to work. "Oh, Sherlock I'm sorry to hear it." John's face immediately softened. Hook line and sinker.

"Could I help at all? I was a doctor before I was a cop, you know." John was honestly trying to be kind.

"Really? Your resumé must be very impressive Mr. Watson." Of course Sherlock had already deduced that he had been a doctor, an army doctor in fact, but John wouldn't have expected him to know that. So he had to act surprised, or at least interested, at the news.

"Just John, call me John."

"Alright, John, thank you for the offer but I'm afraid you won't be able to help much. She's beyond medical assistance." Sherlock's eyes welled with fake tears and he quickly turned away from John as if to not let him see.

"I was very good," John tried to console Sherlock, "I'm sure I'd be able to do something. Even if it only eases her suffering."

Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder. John was really trying hard to comfort him, or expose his lie. But he sounded genuine enough. "Thank you, but we've already done all we can for her. She won't last much longer as it is." A stiff tone crept into his voice, he was getting tried of this useless ramble. He should've picked a subtler lie to hide his disappearance.

John quickly took his hand off Sherlock, realizing his mistake. "Sorry, I didn't mean to intrude."

Sherlock nodded his understanding and decided now would be an opportune time to try and discover a little more of what John knew. "Why are you up so early then?"

John sighed and sat back behind his laptop. "Just work stuff."

Sherlock knew he should leave it at that but he would never have a better opportunity than now to dig deeper. "You know, as a forensic scientist, I'm very well aquatinted with police work. Perhaps I can be of assistance."

"Forensic scientist in _training_," John corrected him.

"Well, yes, but I like to think I'm ahead of my class." Sherlock tried to put as much charm and friendliness into his voice as he could muster, this was certainly out of his comfort zone.

John sighed again, "Well, I can certainly use all the help I can get on this bloody case."

Sherlock's heartbeat skipped a beat, maybe he was better at this "conversation" thing than he thought.

"Alright so what do you have," Sherlock tried to keep the excitement from entering his voice as he walked up behind John and looked at his screen. It was a picture of the man that Sherlock had slit the throat of just last night. "Is that another of those ghosts you keep talking about?"

"Yeah," John rubbed the back of his head. "Do you recognize him?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Never seen him in my life. Who is he?" Sherlock was genuinely intrigued at this point. He never got to know who his victims were, personally, that is. He was told their schedules so that he would know when and where to dispose of them but no more than that.

"His name is Stan Hughson," John continued, "he was a standard guy in his late forties, worked at a local bank, had two daughters and a wife, and according to them he had no criminal record. All his friends and family said he was a nice guy, no enemies at all. There is absolutely nothing remarkable about him, but someone took the time to kill him. Why?"

Sherlock was starting to get invested, which he knew was a horrible idea, but he couldn't help it. He was only told who to kill, not why, maybe he would get a chance to discover the motive for once. "Any religious beliefs that could've caused someone to want him dead?"

"None at all. But the motive isn't even the biggest question," John turned in his chair to face Sherlock. "Why would the murderer just leave the body there? Whoever commented the crime was obviously good at what they did, so why not hide the evidence?"

"I don't know," Sherlock responded more to himself than to John. Suddenly, Sherlock had an idea. Maybe, just maybe, he would be able to use this case and his new friendship with John to track down the person who was sabotaging his mission. The brilliant idea nearly made him break out of character.

Sherlock stifled a fake yawn looked at the clock. "I think I'll be of better service to you when I'm fully awake. Let me get some more sleep and then we can talk about the case more."

John nodded in agreement and waved Sherlock off. "Of course. Sleep sounds like an excellent idea, I think I'll turn in in just a few minutes myself."

Sherlock forced himself to yawn again as he walked over to his bedroom. "Goodnight John," he called over his shoulder.

"Goodnight Sherlock," came the muffled reply. Sherlock closed his bedroom door behind him and grinned. Things might be looking up.


End file.
